Harry Potter and the Recusant Successors
by NeverGonnaStop
Summary: When the sirens began wailing Harry feared the worst, but it was not nukes or even asteroids falling upon them, but the flagships of no fewer than three warring extra-galactic factions. He soon found himself embroiled not only in their war, but the unwilling successor to the Sith ideology.(Order of the Phoenix X Son of Dathomir)
1. Chapter 1: Skyfall

**Harry Potter and the Recusant Successors by NeverGonnaStop**

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**Notes:**

This crossover takes place in the Harry Potter universe a few days before the first chapter of "**Order of the Phoenix**" and in the Star Wars universe in "**Son of Dathomir**" Chapter 3(Which I'm sure you can find online for free. I did.) just as Mace Windu and Aayla Secura land on the asteroid base.

Obviously earth in this universe never had a film-maker by the name of George Lucas and as such has no knowledge of the Star Wars universe.

Furthermore this entire story only takes place on earth. I couldn't find a star wars crossover that took place on Harry's home turf. Hence this story you are reading.

That's all you need to know before we begin.

Enjoy.

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**Chapter 1:**

**Skyfall**

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"And you be sure to give my love to Petunia." Mrs Figg called as he exited her house.

Harry waved diplomatically as he began the short trek from Wisteria Walk to Privet Drive. Mrs Figg was the local cat lady, one who once labored under the odious task of babysitting Harry in his pre-wizarding days.

She recently took up the hobby of tea ceremony. Trying the delightful varieties of foreign teas and watching her attempts at Japanese traditions would have been a wonderful experience were the smell and taste of jasmine and mandarin orange drinks not ruined by the odor of stale cat litter and fur.

The conversation didn't make up for it. Today she had ranted and raved about the Indonesian people. While Harry did agree that, yes, making tea by soaking dead cats in warm water was equal parts disgusting and inhumane, it wasn't something he wanted to discuss while drinking concoctions from the same continent that boasted such a practice.

He couldn't help but ponder whether the magical community of Indonesia also practiced cat tea but with kneazles.

He shuddered at the thought and vowed never to ask Hermione out of fear of the animal rights crusade that would ensue. Maybe the Patils would know? India was pretty close to Indonesia right?

The only positive thing about spending time with Mrs Figg, aside from it being preferable to spending time with his relatives, was the free access to her television and, as such, the news.

Nothing particularly interesting had been reported since the start of his summer holiday. Honestly, all he got from the experience was an entire record studios worth of commercial jingles and slogans stuck in his brain.

He was humming one such jingle when the sound of blaring sirens broke him out of his reverie.

He froze at the noise. He'd never heard them before, or at least not in real life. If anything they sounded like world war 2 air raid sirens. Was London being bombed? Surely they would have all been alerted to a coming invasion long before enemy planes arrived.

All earlier concerns of Death Eaters and magic fled from him as he remembered a much more likely possibility. A possibility that until the fall of the Berlin wall just a few years earlier felt all too real to those raised in the Muggle world.

Was nuclear war upon them?

Harry would have laughed at how woefully unprepared most purebloods would be if it was, but he was too busy sprinting the remaining distance back to Number 4.

The yellowing grass of the Dursley home greeted him as he approached, and his aunt did the same at the door.

"Oh thank goodness!" She squealed as she ushered - see shoved - him inside. "Dudley is already downstairs. Vernon is grabbing anything edible. Take whatever you need from your room and join us in the basement. Quickly!"

Harry blinked at the utter strangeness of seeing his aunt in such a state. Was Petunia... Concerned? Somehow the prospect of the panicking woman giving a single damn about him terrified Harry more than the prospect of becoming a shadow on the wall.

"What's going on?" He asked, barely able to hear his own words over the sirens.

Petunia opened the door to the living room and pointed inside. Harry strained to hear the newscaster. Thank Merlin for subtitles.

"This is not a drill! Reports from NASA and the international space station both confirm an approaching asteroid due to strike the United Kingdom. Everybody is instructed to find a bunker, subway or basement and tuck in. I repeat..."

An asteroid? A bloody asteroid! He couldn't decide if that was better or worse than worldwide nuclear war.

Probably better. Less radioactive fallout. And if it's just one asteroid hopefully only England and the surrounding countries will be wiped out instead if the whole world. Though Harry would prefer to live long enough to someday kiss a girl and not die at all before the ripe old age of three hundred and eighty four.

"Hedwig!" Harry called as he ran upstairs.

He had let the snowy-white owl out for a flight just before going to meet Mrs Figg. The owl had longe-since lost its nocturnal nature in favor of spending her days awake and in Harry's company. He was beginning to regret having such a strong bond with her.

She was not in her cage, on the perch beside the window nor even visible on the neighboring rooftops. He could only hope she was smart enough to get somewhere safe. Reflecting on his past experiences with her he reckoned she was.

Fortunately all of his belongings were in his room instead of locked in the cupboard downstairs as in previous years. Unfortunately they were scattered in such a manner as to suggest the asteroid had already struck. He prioritized things that were irreplaceable, and as close to being worth dying for as any non-person could be.

The Marauder's map lay under his pillow for ease of perusal and his invisibility cloak was stuffed behind the headboard for ease of escape. He left all of his schoolbooks and clothes, as those could all be re-purchased, save for the four years worth of sweaters from Mrs Weasley which he stuffed into his shirt alongside his father's cloak.

He snatched up a few other doodads that were within easy reach, like the sneakoscope and omnioculars, and stuffed them into his pockets. It was as he turned to bolt back downstairs that a sharp pain on his ankle made him yelp.

The sight of the miniature dragon from the first task desperately clawing up his leg in search of protection reminded him how serious of a situation he was in. If even inanimate objects were panicking then maybe it was time to get his arse into gear.

He pocketed it along with the other doodads and stuck his head out of the window one last time.

"Hedwi..."

He stopped midway through calling for his faithful companion. The sky was alight with a bright fireball, still too far away to make out in any detail. He wasn't experienced in identifying incoming space rocks but something about it seemed off.

He pulled the omnioculars back out of his pocket and held it awkwardly against his glasses. Turning one of the many dials on the haphazard device allowed him to zoom in on the incoming ball of death more efficiently than any telescope. What he saw boggled even his mind.

"That's no meteor." He gasped as he made out what looked like an arrowhead made of silver. "That's a spaceship!"

And so it was. The obviously artificial nature of the construction, to say nothing of the red paint, spoke of intelligent design.

As if his life wasn't bizarre enough already. Now there were aliens!

"Hedwig!" He yelled out through the window one last time.

It was then that something even louder than the blaring sirens roared overhead and he looked up to see balls of fire and rock shoot over the two thousand year old city and hopefully into the english channel where they would harm the fewest people.

"Okay. Those are definitely meteors."

Harry banished all thoughts of extraterrestrial visitors and avian friends from his mind as he lumbered back downstairs. He stopped just before reaching the bottom.

He could hide in the basement with the Dursleys. For an indeterminate number of days. With the Dursleys. Until rescue teams came in to dig them out of the rubble. With the Dursleys. With no running water or personal space. With the Dursleys.

Or...

"I'll take my chances."

He sprinted back upstairs and snatched up his Firebolt. It was close to being on the list of irreplaceable things, having been a gift from his godfather, but he had figured Sirius would be happier to find Harry alive without the sports broom than dead grasping onto it like a biblical treasure. Now it was his best bet to get somewhere he was almost certain could survive an asteroid. Or a spaceship falling so fast that it might as well be an asteroid.

"Harry! Where are you going!" Vernon called after him as he reached the front door.

He looked back at the pair standing beside the basement door and felt his insides go cold.

If anything cemented his decision to leave in search of a better bunker, the look of genuine worry and compassion on his aunt and uncle's faces, directed at him, did just that.

Harry fled from Privet Drive in absolute terror.

He knew the Firebolt could exceed speeds of two hundred miles per hour and hoped that he could reach Gringotts in record time without worrying about breaking the statute of secrecy. Emergency clauses and all that.

But would the goblins let him in and down to his vault in time? He was sure there was some precedent about vaults doubling as safe houses in an emergency like this. They had done so during the great London fiendfires in the 17th century at least. And during the bombing raids of both world wars.

Harry promised himself to never again sleep through a lecture from Professsor Binns if he managed to get out of this alive. He further promised that he'd attend the ghost's classes for the rest of eternity if he didn't get out of this alive.

He kept glancing over his shoulder as more meteorites and metal debris peppered the city around him like a great, fiery hailstorm. Soon enough he was praising Oliver Wood's name to the heavens as he put into practice the hundreds of hours of Quidditch training the team captain had forced him through.

At the time, practicing bludgeor dodging during a thunderstorm seemed unnecessarily cruel. Now it seemed like child's play.

"Shit!"

He yanked into a dive just as what could only be described as a high-tech fighter jet nearly clipped him.

He pulled up in time to see the vehicle tear through an office building to the right of him.

When he pulled his broom horizontal again it was to confront the challenge of evading eighteen stories of glass and steel descending upon him like the foot of a Greek titan. He pushed his broom to the upper limit but there was no chance of him clearing the distance necessary to avoid being turned into a waffle. Not a pancake, a rebar and glass studded waffle.

"Bombarda!" He yelled, pointing his wand to the window directly above him.

He raced through the shattered window, wand still in hand, and began a fast-paced game of "dodge the metal filing drawers and staplers." He weaved between the free-falling furniture, cubicle walls and human beings as best he could but had to resort to several more blasting curses to pass through the walls unscathed.

Bile rose in his throat as he tried to ignore the guilt of knowing he couldn't save any of the men or women that flew past him towards the ground and their inevitable death. He thanked the heavens once more, this time for the small mercy of being unable to hear their screams over the rushing wind in his ears or crumbling concrete around him.

One final blasting curse removed another window from the opposite side of the building, which was now effectively the ceiling, and he ascended into the open sky once more. He had lost control of his broom during the last push and was spinning out of control upon his exit.

In the time it took for him to wrest control of his momentum and catch his bearings before trying to spot a landmark to guide him towards Diagon Alley he realized that his time was up.

There was a brief pause. A sudden silence as if the earth itself were bracing for impact.

He saw it. A bright flash of light as the ship dove into the earth like the head of a spade. It kicked up mountains of dirt, buildings and pipes the deeper it dug. Soon an outright tsunami of dirt, rock, metal and fire was sweeping in all directions from the impact site. From his distance it could have almost been mistaken for an actual tsunami of muddy water.

It was truly surreal, witnessing such profound destruction but being so far away that the sound had yet to reach him. And so Harry sat there on his broom, mesmerized, as he waited for the end to come.

It was all so indescribably beautiful.

The shockwave from the impact deafened him as he was tossed about like a rag doll by the scorching-hot and gale-force winds.

All was blackness after that.


	2. Chapter 2: First Contact

**Harry Potter and the Recusant Successors by NeverGonnaStop**

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**Chapter 2:**

**First Contact**

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Pillows normally went under a persons head, and yet for some reason when Harry next awoke it was to find one on top of his instead.

The daze of recently waking combined with the disorientation of his blown-out eardrums stalled his efforts to decipher the mystery of the pillow placement. A mystery confounded by the incredible discomfort of where he was laying.

Pebbles. Branches. Crushed glass. These things a good mattress did not make. The uncontained fire not five feet from his head didn't make for a particularly safe nightlight either.

"Hedwig, I'm not an owl chick." He chided the bird as his brain caught up to reality.

His ears were still ringing and he could barely hear his own words as they left his mouth. Now he had hearing to match his vision. Great.

Hedwig didn't budge an inch from where she was nestled on his neck and chin. Her feathers ruffled and prickled as she attempted to puff up and appear larger than she really was. She continued her guard over him, swerving her head every which way with a glare that dared any potential threat to approach her prone master.

It was actually rather cute. And touching.

She barked in annoyance as he tried to sit up, catching her in his arms as she slid down his shirt. He didn't feel any of the increasingly familiar pain attributed to broken bones as he did so. He felt plenty of pain, to be sure, but it was pain of the body-wide bruise forming alongside his sprained... Everything.

"I know I've told you this before." Harry said to the bird in his arms. "But you're the most brilliant owl in the world."

His compliment did not sate her protective rage and she continued clicking her beak threateningly at the world around them. If only he could get her to understand how amazing it was that she'd managed to track him down in the aftermath of such an apocalyptic event.

Still. He appreciated her more in that moment than ever before

She was acting like a nesting mother. Now that Harry thought about it, he had to wonder if she'd mothered any chicks before. She did sleep in the school owlery. With hundreds of other owls... Did they?

Probably. But he had more pressing concerns at the moment than Hedwig possibly getting it on with Malfoy's Eagle Owl.

"Accio glasses." He said, or presumably said.

He made the motions with his mouth and hoped for the best.

His glasses flew to him in seconds and he snatched them with with the same hand his wand was held. He caught them more with practiced reflex than actual hand-eye coordination.

He didn't bother checking them. They were surely damaged beyond non-magical repair.

Still holding Hedwig in one arm, Harry kneeled down and placed the ruined spectacles on the ground before tapping them with his wand.

"Occulus Reparo."

Funny thing about the reparo spell and it's variants. It can only repair something using the physical material present. It did not conjure or transfigure new material for the task; that was a more advanced repairing spell learned in NEWT year. For example, if you were to use it on a broken window with a few of the shards missing, the end result would be much thinner than the original window.

His glasses were little more than a twisted frame, but with concentration the spell allowed him to use the glass from around him as substitute, and there was plenty of the stuff.

With step one of his master plan complete he donned his sensory aid and got his first good look of London post-alien visitation.

"Yup. That's about what I expected." He mumbled to himself, ears still ringing but slowly coming around.

The city looked like hell. Actual hell.

Every one of the classical London homes on the street was either demolished or burning. Mostly burning. Every tree was either uprooted or vivisected as if struck by lightning. Though more likely they were simply torn asunder by the great winds.

Trying to traverse the previously flat terrain was made all but impossible by the brick and timber innards of the identical homes spilled along the road like confetti. And also burning.

What really stopped him dead in his tracks was the jagged fissure cutting through the park he had landed near and the street he stood on where it had uprooted a few homes. He was on the half of the world that hadn't been lifted by the cosmic impact and could see water pooling on the fractured earth below him from a waterline that jutted clearly from the cliff just three feet from him.

Circumventing this latest barrier, Harry soon discovered the sky was an even more confusing mess.

Great, black roiling clouds told of a hurricane intent on swooping down and scooping them all up, but there was little accompanying wind beyond a gentle breeze. Stranger still was how alight the world was. Vibrant reds, oranges and yellows painted the clouds like during a sunrise.

How long had he been unconscious?

It was sunset when Harry'd made his daring escape. So either he'd only been unconscious for a few seconds or it was dawn already. Or dusk of the following day.

A longer examination of the city around him proved that it was, in fact, late in the night. It only looked like daytime because of the roaring fires rampaging across the city.

"Right. I should probably get moving, eh girl?"

Hedwig had finally started to calm down and was nestling into his stomach. No doubt just as exhausted as he was, if not moreso. He decided to let her be.

Tiptoeing through the park so as not to disturb the sleeping owl Harry kept an eye out for any Aurors or Hit Wizards. There was a chance that nobody detected all of the magic he'd used thus far, but his usual luck wouldn't allow for that. They probably just had bigger issues to tackle than reprimanding him for his use of magic.

Somewhere on that list had to be helping underage witches and wizards who, like himself, probably thought to use a spell or two hoping officials would detect it and track them down with the trace. And who like him were in desperate need of rescue.

He didn't bother using another summoning charm for his firebolt. There was zero chance of it being in any better shape than his old Nimbus. Sirius would be so disappointed. Well, probably not, but Harry would feel a great deal of shame next time he saw the old dog.

"Point me." He mumbled as he reached the foot of the hill/plateau/catastrophically raised shard of earth.

Following his wand's directions, Harry kept east until he spotted a twisted and crumpled street sign jutting out of a brick wall. The thin metal sheets declaring the names of the cross streets he stood upon hung limply. Or at least he hoped they did. For all he knew this street sign could have been flung here from halfway across the city.

If his mental map was correct he was about an hours walk from Diagon Alley. Unfortunately his feet were already beginning to drag in protest of the pain in his joints from the crash. His aching muscles were even more insistent that he be still, perhaps he should listen to them for a change?

He didn't want to disturb Hedwig but he had nobody else to rely on at the moment. Oddly enough she seemed altogether nonplussed by being prodded awake and placed on the jutting pole. She was being especially calm today.

"Alright girl. I need you to get help." He told her as he glanced around at the singed newspapers and plastic bags billowing down the streets. "Hang on."

Disregarding any chance of writing a proper message he struggled to detach the placards indicating the names of the cross streets. One piercing hex and some McGuyvering a bit of wiring from a demolished streetlamp later and he had an oddly proportioned pair of dog tags indicating exactly where he was.

"Okay. Take this to Dumbledore, or Sirius or whoever is closest. I'm sure they're bright enough to figure my meaning."

She grasped the wire of the streetsign necklace and flew away without any protest.

And so Harry was left alone in the barren street. His only company the sound of emergency helicopters overhead, crackling flames and the rustling of debris in the light wind.

The occasional lightning bolt would streak across the black sky, with smaller sparks dancing silently from within the dark masses.

With nothing better to do he pondered how this could be. Nothing was up there but dust and smoke. It wasn't a natural stormhead. How was it producing lightning, and so much of it?

He reasoned that the raging fires all over the city, and likely beyond it, were releasing a great deal of moisture into the air. There was also the impact itself, which must have outright vaporized several square miles of matter. So that was all probably up there too.

So with the cold moisture up there and hot fires down here there was definitely the temperature difference necessary to make lightning. And plenty of conductivity too. Hell, there was so much raw elemental energy that it was amazing the clouds themselves weren't spontaneously combusting.

Harry took a deep breath.

Thinking helped to keep him calm. Helped him relax and ignore bodily pain. Most of it was his attempts to simulate Hermione's company in his own head. Her habit of throwing verbal diarrhea by expositing trivia or contemplating out loud could always put him at ease, especially when it came from a place of concern.

He could have really used one of her lectures in the previous weeks. Even a written one. Something to keep his mind off of Cedric, or Voldemort or Fudge. But she, and worse Ron, had not deigned to send him a single proper letter.

He realized with a pang of guilt that he didn't care about any of those things anymore. Or at least not in that moment. He couldn't bring up the boiling terror at the memory of that THING rising out of the cauldron, the steaming hatred for Pettigrew nor the icy remorse for failing to save his fellow champion.

He felt all too empty. Not in shock from the cataclysmic crash. He certainly wasn't too tired to feel emotions, which was a level of exhaustion he'd experienced more than once.

No. He simply felt empty.

The events of the last few hours knocked something loose. Seeing all of the death and destruction around him made all of those other things seem so ... minor.

With a stir, he realized what it is.

Perspective.

Harry Potter had been bequeathed by fate a truly gargantuan frame of reference to compare these past tragedies to.

How many millions of people died in that impact? How many millions more were injured? How many millions more still will NEVER be able to see their homes or worldly possessions ever again? That crater will in all likelihood be there forever. If not because of how unfeasible the prospect of filling it and repairing the rest if the destruction would be, then at least in memorum to the tragedy.

From that point of view, with that perspective in mind, was the ending to the Triwizard tournament really all that traumatic?

One person died. Harry got a few injuries. He survived ten minutes or so in hell but survived relatively unscathed. Bruised but alive.

That was nothing. All of that was nothing.

This was the real deal. This is what all other things to come would be compared to in his heart and mind. He prayed whatever form the coming conflict with Voldemort and his forces took, that it would seem as pitiful in comparison to this day as that day in the graveyard did.

Somehow he doubted it.

Harry shook himself to rid his mind of that malaise.

"Better to take stock of my blessings." He mumbled to himself as he emptied his pockets and yanked the increasingly uncomfortable clothes from inside his shirt.

Four hand-knitted sweaters, his father's invisibility cloak, the Marauder's map, the sneakoscope, the toy dragon, Sirius' knife, the omniocculars, a few galleons and his wand. That was it. That and the clothes on his back.

This was now everything he owned. He hadn't even thought to grab the photo album gifted to him by Hagrid. That one hurt the most. But hopefully the loveable half-giant could recreate it for him. Hopefully It was replaceable. Most of these things weren't.

And neither was his life.

That thought brought him out of his funk.

Harry, ignoring the cracking protests of his body, stood back up and wiped away the offending tears from his face. He needed something to DO! Something other than mope and wait to be rescued.

There!

Not three blocks away, jutting over the surrounding rubble, was the office building he almost died under. The place where the smaller spaceship crashed.

If not to sate his curiosity, then at least the prospect of rescuing someone - or something - would make the trip worth it. Right?

He left everything beside where the street sign would have been save for what he'd need for the small adventure. His wand, the invisibility cloak, and the omniocculars. He brought the map too, even though it was completely useless outside of Hogwarts.

Then he began the short walk. A walk that turned out to be even shorter than he expected.

He soon came upon a long, jagged, wound in the earth leading to - or more likely away - from the building in question. It was already starting to fill with ashen water. A bit of mental calculus told Harry that his target would no doubt be at the end of this artificial river bed.

He followed the trail for a good quarter mile, stomping in the puddles and miniscule streams along the way, before he found another one. A smoother one. One made by a falling rock. A falling rock he could see.

"Wait. So the asteroid was a spaceship too?"

Hanger bay doors and other mechanical miscellany jutted out of the rocky surface every which way. All of it either scorched or melted, just as the duplex-sized meteor itself was. So the asteroid wasn't a ship in and of itself but a mobile base of sorts. A base with hanger bays and likely other necessities like a barracks and kitchen.

A space station then?

Whatever it had once been it was rubble know. Rubble scattered all over the country if not the continent. He was more interested in an actual spaceship.

He finally donned his invisibility cloak, feeling rather uneasy about being seen by an alien before he saw it, and continued along the gouged earth until he reached a place where the water collected into a shallow pool.

There was nothing there. Unless you count a half-crumpled flower shop something, that is. Which Harry did not thank you very much.

Maybe the ship didn't survive the impact? No. That didn't pan out. There would have been bits and pieces of the black and red projectile and he hadn't see any on the way here.

There was the rather obvious possibility that the flying ship had, shocker, flown away. He went to school in a place where no position in space was exactly fixed after-all. So that should have been his first guess.

This didn't pan out either. If a jet crashed into that building before taking off then surely it would have had to lift and then drop at least some debris. Or dragged some backwards. Or at least scuff the crater.

It certainly wasn't sunk beneath the waist-high puddle.

He took out the magical binoculars and looked for anything out of place, reticent to approach such a suspicious site.

He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something about the scene was off. The way the support beam for the florist sat at an angle. The way the timber of the building was bulging upwards into the ceiling. How pieces of glass and wood seemed to float in the air...

"It's invisible!" He gasped before slapping a hand over his mouth.

Something about advanced aliens developing with technology what was exceptionally rare to the magical world, not to mention near and dear to his heart, was just too mind-blowingly cool for Harry. The sudden hiss of steam and glittering rays of white light coming from where he knew the ship to be was even more awesome.

A landing platform dropped in the puddle revealing the inside of the, still invisible, spaceship. It was dark inside, save for the runway-style lights along the ramp leading inside.

Out stepped two people. A man and a woman judging by the comparative shape of their waists and shoulders. Even this was hard to ascertain due to the heavy black and red armour they wore.

The full body regalia, to say nothing of the pointy bits sticking out of it, did not speak highly of their possible friendliness. Neither did the jet packs or side-arms they carried.

It was silly to think that maybe, just maybe, their alien visitors would be peace-loving beings. Maybe even justiciars from a world where knowledge of magic wasn't so esoteric and who were willing to fight the looming threat of Voldemort.

Clearly that was asking too much.

"The seismic scanners picked up something moving towards our position." The female, and her voice was definitely female, told her superior.

Seismic scanners? Ignoring the obvious mystery of how these visitors spoke flawless English, Harry scoured his mind for what that could mean.

Seismic... Seismic... Earthquakes?

Harry certainly hoped there wasn't one of those coming along. There was also a seismograph which detected earthquakes. So maybe that's what it was?

"What type of being and from what vector?" The male said.

Well no, seismographs just detected vibrations in the ground. Probably. So if they have seismic sensors, they would be much more advanced. They could pick up much smaller movements in the earth. Like a nearby crash... Or footsteps.

"Bipedal. Less than a hundred and fifty pounds. Southeast." She answered, pointing in Harry's general vicinity.

Yup. Footsteps. They have sensors that can pickup footsteps.

"I don't see anything. Are you certain you calibrated the sensors correctly, Kast?" The male said

"I assure you, Commander. My engineering droid has gotten all of our sensors back into top shape. The ship proper will be likewise functional again soon enough." The female, Kast, snipped back.

Harry wasn't exactly sure where she ranked in comparison to a Commander of whatever military force these two hailed from, but these two certainly weren't in equal standing.

"Well. When in doubt..." The commander said, lifting what was clearly some kind of gun.

"Light it up." Kast finished his sentence, drawing an identical firearm.

And so they did. Harry hit the ground as fast as gravity would let him. Just as a hailstorm of bright red bolts scoured the world around him.

All in all, first contact with alien life was going about as well as could be reasonably expected.


	3. Chapter 3: The Chase

**Harry Potter and the Recusant Successors**

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**Chapter 3:**

**The Chase**

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Harry didn't dare breath as he huddled pitifully in a trench below the onslaught of laser bullets.

Wait, no. Not lasers. He could see the bolts. Plasma? Whatever. Might as well call them "death bolts" for all the good identifying their makeup would do him. Right now he needed to think of a way to get out of there!

Should he fight? Could he take them? He was invisible, and these erudite aliens might be unaware of magic as a phenomenon. Or Maybe he should just stop thinking and start doing. That's always worked out better for him.

And so when his obsidian armoured foes finally relented he leaped up and fired a quick pair of blasting curses before running back the direction he came. He didn't peel his eyes off of them for a second, an action he soon regretted.

They literally shrugged the blasting curses off. Now all Harry could think about was how much he wanted that armour. Oh right. Running!

He pushed his leg muscles as hard as he could and ran like he was being chased by Dudley's gang. Their laser blasts chased him as he went, but missed by a country mile. For all he knew their aim was impeccable, but even a master marksman has trouble shooting what they can't see.

He ducked beneath a toppled roof and charged through a maze of ruined homes. The trashed buildings made ladder's out railings, slides out of walls and bridges out of staircases. He came to crouch in an open air basement and hid behind a pile of furniture and a large novelty ufo replica with kite shields for wings.

"Homeno revalio." Harry whispered and gave a sigh of relief when the spell came back negative.

He'd lost them. That or they just didn't care enough to chase his scrawny arse through the tight rubble. They were both rather broad and muscular, so like a small prey animal fleeing much larger predators he took the run-and-hide option and it payed off.

"Whew!" He sighed in relief before removing his cloak.

Running for his life had always brought Harry a kind of rush. He didn't care if it be dragons, acromantula or laser-wielding aliens. It made him feel alive, but always brought a nerve rending crash afterwards.

With that last spell he hoped anybody in the ministry tracking him would be able to find his position. He couldn't risk trying to sneak back to the cross streets he had sent Hedwig from, but hopefully whoever got his message had the brains to follow her back to him on a broom. She could always find him.

Speak of the devil!

"Hedwig!" He called out when he saw the white puff of feathers pass overhead.

She dive bombed towards him at his call and landed on his chest life a cannonball. He held her tight in a two-armed hug as she rubbed her head against his abdomen. Sheesh, she hadn't left his side but twenty minutes ago.

He was saved from his familiars affection by two broom riders swooping in.

Their faces were hard to make out behind the bubble head charms they wore - smart, considering the many dangerous vapors and pulverized materials floating in the atmosphere as dust - but the pegleg and shoulder-high staff of the male gave one of their identities away as they dismounted.

"Professor Moody!" He greeted with a leap.

If Hedwig wasn't in his arms he would have outright flung himself at the grizzled Auror and embraced him. The paranoid bastard probably wouldn't have appreciated that all too much.

"Professor?" Moody growled as he canceled the bubble head charm. "I ain't never been a teacher."

Harry's smile turned into a grimace as he remembered the fate this man had suffered for almost an entire year.

"Then what the hell have we been gettin' up to?!" His lithe companion companion snarled. "We been playin' patty cake or somethin'?"

Harry turned to insult her for disrespecting a man he, reluctantly, came to care for immensely during the week they spent together under Pomfrey's _tender_ care. The words caught in his throat when he got a good look at her.

She was. Wow. Yes, wow succinctly described her. She was wow.

If Narcissa Malfoy was younger, dressed in a two-size too-small tank top and jeans with a heart-shaped birth mark peaking out of her exposed midriff, this is what she'd look like. Plus some bright, neon green hair.

Also, what was up with the cockney accent?

"Wotcher Harry, run intu sum barney rubble in this here, er, barmy rubble ere?" She asked as she examined the Roswell toy from behind him.

Harry turned to Moody in hopes of a translation, but his not-former-teacher shrugged with a grimace. Good, so she was the insane one, not him.

"This is my protege, Nymphadora Tonks." Moody introduced the crazy woman.

She outright hissed at the old man and looked ready to attack him.

"Don't. Call me..."

Whatever she was about to say Harry's next question defused the situation.

"Your name is Excalibur?"

She blinked at him.

Moody blinked at him.

"Huh?" Nymphadora asked.

"Nymphadora. Gift of the nymphs." He explained.

They weren't catching on.

"The only nymph I've ever heard of who gave away gifts was the lady of the lake, who gave King Arthur..."

"Excalibuh!" She gasped.

Before his very eyes her hair stood up on end as if she had just touched a power line. It absolutely sparkled as it turned gold and her eyes danced with every color of the rainbow made liquid. He was too dazzled by her smile to properly ponder how she was pulling the effect off.

"Well that settles it then, dunnit? From now on people get to refur to my bottle as Excalibuh!" Tonks explained as her hair settled on pink

Harry shared another worried look with Alastor. It was becoming patently obvious why she was assigned to the grizzled old bastard. The woman was too much for any other Auror to even attempt training.

"How do you be knowing so much about name etymology and all that?"

... Oh! That was English. And she was speaking to him.

"Professor Trelawney let us pick our own topics for divination homework this summer." He explained. "I chose '_The predictive power of names_!' and now I'm stuck trying to figure out how being a fuzzy creator of clay containers guarantees me an agonizing and imminent death."

Excalibur Tonks snickered at the joke, but Moody was a bit out of the loop, having never gotten to know his colleagues during his _tenure_ at Hogwarts.

"What can you glean from this crotchety bastards name?" She asked, thumbing her superior officer.

She leaned against the pile of rubble housing the toy UFO as she asked.

"The persecutor with a foul mood?" Harry recited, having already deciphered the names of every person he knew. "A bit too on the nose there, no offense sir."

Moody took Harry's jab at the state of his nose in stride by flicking it with his thumb in a rather rude gesture. He seemed ready to retort, probably to defend his name as having the same meaning as Alexander, but before the banter could continue the room gave a violent jerk.

For a split second Harry worried that an entire two story building, okay, half of a two story building was about to come crashing down on their heads. That was until he saw the red, laser sharp eyes of the alien robot he'd mistaken for a toy replica. The one Excalibur was currently leaning against.

Well. That explained the hole in the ceiling. And the ceiling above that. And the ceiling above that one.

"Move Nymphadora!" Alastor yelled at the recruit.

While she was preoccupied flinching away from the rapidly rising kite shield of a robot Alastor made busy summoning their brooms. He tossed Tonks' to her before mounting his own. Harry jumped on behind him.

"You had the choice between me and the girl and you chose to ride bitch with me?!" He yelled back as they lifted off.

"She scares me! Now put some acceleration into it!" Harry yelled back.

And so the Auror obliged, his apprentice hot on his tail and the robot even hotter on hers.(Note: For those of you who haven't figure it out already, it's a Vulture Droid.)

The metalloid demon screeched like a banshee as it shot after them through the holes it no doubt made in the building when it crash landed. The sound was made all the louder by the cramped quarters.

They breached the roof just as it got the bright idea to shoot at them and the barrage of red plasma bolts blew scorching holes in what remained of the shingles.

The crimson bolts provided the only light with which to navigate, save for the equally demonic and equally red bolts of lightning criss-crossing the obsidian clouds above.

"To headquarters!" Moody yelled over the constant stream of plasma bolts littering the side of the building whose alley they flew into.

His words must have registered to the Cockney girl because she pulled up beside them and made an affirmative motion with her hand. Harry was a bit too busy worrying about this things astronomically high rate of fire and how poorly that boded for them.

Then it decided to fire a missile at them. No, make that two missiles. Bright, blue and glowing they may have been, but they were missiles all the same.

A bit of mental math comparing their speed to that of the projectiles in the cramped quarters of the alleyway and the prognosis wasn't promising. So Harry did what always worked.

"Bombarda!"

The wall directly ahead to his right opened up like a blooming, dusty flower. Lacking the time necessary to let Moody in on his plan, Harry reached around older man, grasped the shaft firmly with both hands and yanked it, guiding him into the hole.

If Harry survived to tell about it he would sure to describe these events in a significantly less homo-erotic manner.

Thankfully Tonks was bright enough to come to the same solution as he had, unless he was imagining her voice screaming a blasting curse over the sound of the missile following him and Moody through the hole.

Wait, what?

"It's tracking us!" Harry yelled to the pilot.

He then remembered why he was called Mad-Eye and realized he probably already gathered that for himself and would want him to do something useful about it instead of giving a play by play.

"I gathered that for myself, thanks! Now make yourself useful while I'm preoccupied instead of giving me a play by play!"

Yup. Good ol predictable Moody.

Harry swept his wand in a wide arc above them. He didn't bother uttering an incantation. This wasn't a spell. It had no finesse, just raw destructive magic pouring out of his wand. The old apartment building was fucked anyways, what was another collapsed ceiling?

Timber, drywall and wiring rained down behind them, but to Harry's horror the smoky missile phased right through it, creating a singed hole through all it touched.

Well that's not good.

Before Harry could try a more magical means of stopping the missile their hallway came to an end and they crashed through a window. Moody did an impressive barrel roll to transfer some of their momentum into a turn that just barely saved them from slamming into an adjacent apartment building.

The black, thunderous clouds above had mercifully parted enough to allow a few rays of sunlight to light their way.

Once again they were going full speed towards whatever destination Moody had in mind and once again the missile locked onto them and followed their trajectory perfectly.

It was then that the alien robot jet rejoined the fray and rained crimson death from above.

The plasma bolts threw up charred cobblestone and dirt as they tore up the ground all about them. Harry did his best to focus on the missile closing in on them but his blasting curses refused to meet their target. At this rate his only option would be to wait until it was close enough to hit them and cast a protego, a strategy Harry did not want to put all of his hopes into.

Small blessings being what they were, the hailstorm of fire let up and Harry finally managed to hit true, only for his blasting curse to pass right through the projectile.

"Shit! Stupefy! Reductor. Flipendo!"

Miss, miss, pass right through. A few more cycles of trying the three spells and the accursed thing proved just as invulnerable to his stunners and reductors as it was to the knockback jinx.

And then Harry heard the reason for the robots lost interest in them.

It was loud. It was high pitched. And it was coming right for them. Moreover, whatever it might be was taking the full brunt of the robots attention.

His time was out. The missile was a mere meter away from them. All he could do now was pray that this last measure worked and hope it didn't blow them out of the sky.

"Protego!"

The earth shattering kaboom would make Marvin the Martian proud. And for all Harry knew the Looney toons character may very well exist. Recent revelations made it a distinct possibility.

For a moment Harry felt weightless, consumed by the dust cloud that obscured what little light still pierced the hellish storm clouds above the city. The next moment had Harry dangling from the back of Moody's broom with one hand, hanging on for dear life.

Moody wasn't given the opportunity to slow down and pull him up, however, as the flying kite shields came crashing down in a fiery mass of twisted metal just ahead of them and forcing Alastor to swerve and avoid it. Crescending over a half-collapsed office building was a sight that would seer into Harry's memory for the rest of his life due to the unadulterated fuck-awesome of it.

One of the armored aliens from earlier had shot down the robot from the back of a motorcycle. A flying motorcycles. A sleek, weapon bedecked killing machine of a flying motorcycle. It's blue and silver finishing made the boxy exterior class horribly with the red and black of the rider's armour. (Balutar-class swoop)

Could these guys get any cooler?!

With their mutual foe destroyed, Kast - or at least Harry thought it was the woman alien - opened fire on them. The front of her hoverbike had a similar rate of fire to that of the UFO from earlier, and just like before Moody swerved and dodged with a skill that betrayed his years of being the Hufflepuff beater.

Still, Harry imagined this would all be going much more smoothly if he was driving and the experienced soldier was Manning the figurative guns. In the meantime, Harry did his best to twist his body to reduce air drag and prevent his dangling feet from meeting the ground as he returned fire.

In an unusual display of skill his stunner, knockback jinx and reductor all hit the woman on her chest. Like with his earlier blasting curse, they did jack with a side of shit against that god-like armour.

Her aim was improving too, and as her latest bolt singed Moody's cloak Harry came to a decision. A stupid, reckless liable-to-get-him-killed decision. But it was do or die.

"Fuck it. That bike is mine." He declared.

And with that declaration he let go and flew, feet first, into Kast's FACE! That bit of blunt force trauma finally did the trick and knocked her off the bike.

Harry barely managed to grab hold of the hoverbike before joining her in the short trip to the ground. The vehicle bucked at the sudden changes in weight and it's backside dug a deep trench into the ground as he fumbled with the handle.

Good news! The denizens of other worlds saw fit to equip their bikes with a throttle on the right handle just as earthlings did. Bad news! Harry couldn't drive.

Worse news? Kast decided to answer his question on her potential coolness in the affirmative as Harry saw her rise up from behind him like an avenging angel and flew at him by way of an honest to God JET PACK!

She was awfully fast with it too. She gained on him rather quickly. Impressive grip on that woman, it completely cut off his airway when she grabbed him by the throat and threw him aside like a rag doll while she remounted the bike.

Now, one maneuver every quidditch player learns early on is called "_skipping_." When you fall off of a broom at high speeds you don't immediately crash on the ground(unless you're really high up, in which case you do just go splat). If you're close to the ground when you fall then the momentum keeps carrying you forward and for a few split seconds you can skip across the ground like a rock on water. On a Quidditch pitch, with soft, sleek grass you can then slide _relatively_ comfortably to a stop. In a desolate postapocalyptic city with nothing but metal and glass-covered asphalt and large piles of debris to crash into, sliding to safety wasn't an option.

He had two choices. He could use what little time he had left skipping to cast a cushioning charm and be mowed down by Kast, OR, he could light that bitch on fire and learn to cope with his shattered body.

"Incendio maxima!" He yelled.

"Bombarda maxima!" Another voice yelled.

A flash of pink, a sudden jerk and Harry was being dragged by his arm along the ground. He internally thanked Tonks while their enemy caught fire and her vehicle caught a nasty case of the explosions just as she finished turning it around to come after him.

He maneuvered his feet to skid along the asphalt while Tonks struggled to lift him one-armed. With a mighty heave, he pushed off of the ground and caught onto the broom behind her. A few seconds of fumbling later and he was pressed comfortably against her back.

"Hold on tight!" She ordered over the howling wind.

Yeah. That uh, that's not going to be a problem.

He turned around from the soft woman he was wrapped around to look at the hard woman who was hopefully wrapped around a tree only to see her scrambling in the distance and trying to put out the fire he'd enveloped her in. Goddamn these guys are tough. And loyal, if her partner coming to a stop to assist her was any indication.

One turn later and their flight from hell was over.

Harry relaxed into the lady Auror as the danger faded from his mind and adrenaline faded from his veins. Everything hurt, down to the last microbe in his gut. But not her. She was soft and warm and smelled of peaches and lavender. There was no pain where he was touching her.

* * *

Their flight, sadly, ended a few short minutes later as they pulled onto a street called Grimm Old Place.

During the interim it had started to rain. It was a stinking, ashy rain that stung every bit of skin it touched. It wasn't long before it soaked through Dudley's hand-me-downs and everything hurt twice over.

They dismounted and approached a tiny alley between number eleven and number thirteen. Tonks had to help keep him steady, but he wasn't going to complain about his arm being around he neck while hers were wrapped around his chest.

"Wait. What?"

Harry felt the oddest sensation glancing between the two buildings. Every time he read the addresses he felt like he was forgetting something, like a piece of information repeatedly slipped from his mind.

Wasn't there supposed to be a number between eleven and thirteen?

"Here." Moody grunted before shoving a crumpled piece of parchment into his free hand.

Harry struggled to unfurl it but soon read the tidy scrawl within.

_The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London._

That's right! Twelve. Twelve comes after eleven. Why couldn't he remember that a moment ago?

Before he could ponder this strange mind magic Moody vanished the piece of paper and walked past him to a shabby door that hadn't been there before.

Before his very eyes brick, mortar, barred windows and everything else comprising a house inflated from the gap between numbers eleven and thirteen Grimmauld place. Now there was some interesting magic.

"In. Now!"

Harry obeyed the peeved-off Auror and ducked into the hideous home just as Headwig landed on the fencing beside it. What he entered could only be described as thinly controlled chaos.

"I need more type oh for the next batch of blood replenishers!" Ginny screamed over the sea of bubbling cauldrons.

And indeed it was a sea. Dozens of black iron tubs filled the hallway and living room to his right where Ginny had called from.

"Here! Pass the boomslang skin!" Sirius hollered back from the opposite end of the living room as he tossed a vial of blood to the youngest Weasley.

"Burn salves and blood clotters are ready for bottling! Ronald, get to it!" The Weasley matriarch ordered her son from a large drawing room to the left of the hallway

Peering inside Harry had to increase his estimate to hundreds. Hundreds of cauldrons littered every inch of available space save for small deer trails carved out for walking and transporting.

This Grimmauld place was a potions sweat shop!

"Coming mum!" Ron's voice came from a flight of stairs and down he came, carrying a large box filled with empty vials. "Heya Harry."

Everyone within earshot glanced up at the nonchalant greeting and looked like they honestly wanted to run over and fuss over him. Thankfully the tasks at hand were more important than their histrionics and they kept at it.

"Potter! Nymphadora!"

Harry groaned. Out of the door leading to what looked like the kitchen strode Severus Snape.

"Are either of you injured enough to need immediate medical attention?" He asked smoothly.

Harry blinked at the question. He'd never heard the potions master show any kind of concern for another person, least of all him. He could only shake his head dumbly at the change of disposition.

Perhaps great tragedies like this can warm even the coldest hearts?

"Good. I trust even dunderheads like you can pull off a satisfactory wiggenweld potion. You will find all of the ingredients and enough cauldrons to work with in the library upstairs." Snape demanded before unceremoniously shoving two cauldrons into their chests.

"Now get to it!"

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

So. I recently read a **Pottermore** article titled **The chapter that made us fall in love with... Nymphadora Tonks**

According to the writer, Tonks is supposed to have a cockney accent. I never would have known. Aside from saying wotcher, it never really came out. Naturally, I decided to do some research on the dialect and exaggerated her speaking.

The result was oddly sexy. I like cockney Tonks. She's here to stay.

And if you want to complain that it's not canon compliant my excuse is that my story takes place three or so weeks before the start of Order of the Phoenix. So my reasoning is that training under Moody beat it out of her but since she just started under him it's still there and strong. End of discussion.


	4. Chapter 4: Cook-Off

**Chapter 4:**

**Cookoff**

* * *

The next morning saw Harry waking up in a full body ache. He would have suspected a terrible flu, save for the absence of chills, eyeball pain and fever.

Raising his head he surveyed the room and found it to be unchanged from the night before. Burnt cauldrons littered every inch of the floor, their contents bottled by whoever checked in on them and thought it best to let them sleep. There, on the other side of the room, was Excaliber.

She looked different when she was sleeping, with a more normal mousey brown color to her much longer hair, which reached down to her shoulder blades. She also had a lot of freckles and not just covering her face. Maybe she used her abilities to hide those instead of using makeup? He made a mental note to ask somebody if metamorphs are incapable of keeping transformations while sleeping, because he suspected this was what Tonks actually looked like without using any of her shapeshifting abilities.

The position she was sleeping in couldn't be comfortable though, as she was completely wrapped around a cauldron with her face resting on the rim. So was Harry, now that he noticed his own choice in sleeping position. No wonder he was in so much pain. Deciding to try and spare her some of that same pain Harry fetched the throw pillows off of the chairs around him and laid them out next to her before gently prying the young woman from her work and lowering her onto them.

With that good deed out of the way, he left the room to see if there was some food waiting downstairs for him. With Molly Weasley in the house there was a good chance for it.

"It's unthinkable! How could you even try to profiteer after this disaster!" Mrs Weasley was fighting somebody. This didn't bode well for his prospective meal.

"Because, I'm taking all of the risks in transporting this junk so I get paid, and Albus already promised me a thirty percent cut!" An unfamiliar voice countered.

Harry peered down to see the Weasley matriarch argueing with a short, pudgy and raggedly dressed man whose appearance just screamed "crook." He wasn't one to judge someone on first appearances, especially with his hand-me-down clothes, but this man didn't look like the sort of law abiding citizens would associate with.

"But it's barbaric! How can you take advantage of people in need?" Oh, Ginny's there too. Let's see this man try to battle two redheaded women at once then.

"Actually, he's not taking advantage. Smugglers and price gougers like him provide far more relief after disasters than any other relief efforts." That one was Hermione, and if it had been anybody else Harry would have scoffed at the claim and made his presence known, but for now he chose to listen.

"When price controls or restrictions are applied to markets after a disaster, or anytime really, it causes instant shortages. Partly because people will hoard supplies making it impossible for the vast majority of people to get any at all. Worse, with the prices kept low sellers and transporters have no incentive to take the financial or safety risk of procuring more of the life saving supplies, and producers have no way of knowing there's a need without the market signal of higher prices and won't manufacture anywhere near enough."

There was the telltale silence that followed every Granger speech in which Harry knew everyone else in the room was staring at her

"Slightly oversimplified, but ostensibly correct, miss Granger. I take it you have read the works of Milton Friedman?" Came Snape's cool voice.

"Actually I'm a much bigger fan of Thomas Sowell, professor." Answered Hermione.

Time to make his presence known then. He descended the final flight of stairs, walked past the mysterious criminal and his pallet of sweatshop potions, and entered the dining room where everyone else sat around the table.

"Morning everybody." He greeted whilst stifling a yawn.

All eyes immediately turned on him. Oh hey Sirius is here too. Let the fussing begin!

"Harry Dear we were so worried!"

"Good thinking sending us the street signs, Son. It was a nightmare trying to find you blind."

"Hedwig was in a right state when she arrived."

"We had everyone out searching, I was even allowed to help, putting my skills as a tracker dog to good use."

Harry was so swept up in the Molly/Sirius sandwich (which was tight, sweaty and oh so loving) that he almost missed Snape trying to sneak out of the kitchen and towards the front door. A thought occurred to Harry, a thought that would have seemed utterly insane to him just a couple days before.

Maybe it was his newfound sense of perspective, but Severus Snape had just pulled an all-nighter, spending an entire day of his finite life with people Harry knew he didn't like very much, to help save lives with his prodigious potions skills. That deserved an olive branch, didn't it?

"Wait! Professor!" Harry called after the potions master.

Snape whirled around in that overly-dramatic way he is want to do and stared Harry down.

Whoa, retract the claws there professor. I come in peace.

"I, um, I'm pretty sure we're about to have a big family breakfast. Won't you stay and eat with us?"

The reactions were instantaneous. Sirius scowled at him, Molly and Hermione gave him an appraising look and every Weasley below the age of majority, and two above it, outright hissed at him; which with his ability to understand parseltongue actually translated to utter gibberish.

"What?!" Harry said defensively before voicing his thoughts. "He just pulled an all nighter to help respond to a worldwide crisis, while working with people he can't stand, I might add. That deserves a little consideration don't it?"

Sirius opened and closed his mouth several times as if he wanted to argue a point, but eventually sighed in apparent defeat.

"Harry is right. Severus." Sirius said, looking Snape directly in the eye. "You are more than welcome to break bread with us all in my home. Whenever you wish to do so."

This was Sirius' house? Wow, it really wasn't Harry's place to invite a guest over was it? Then again, being his godson and all meant it was kind of his house too right? Cool godfathers let their godsons invite dinner guests, right?

"I appreciate that, Sirius, really I do." Snape said, looking to all the world genuinely touched by the offer. "But I must refuse. I have a meal ready to cook at home that has already been marinating too long."

Harry couldn't tell if it was an honest refusal, or an excuse he made up on the fly. It sounded an aweful lot like an excuse he made on the fly.

"Oh come on Professor!" Harry pleaded. "Just make it into a stew for dinner and bring it over for a potluck or something. Mrs. Weasley is an excellent cook and I'm sure she can whip something up to compliment it."

"That may be true, Mister Potter, but I am a better cook."

Dead silence met Snape's claim. Harry turned to the Weasley matriarch to see she had outright flinched away from Snape with an expression that could be best summed up as "EXCUSE ME!". Harry had no doubt that the hand she held to her chest was in response to the literal heart attack she just suffered.

"I'm not one to brag about such things, but I am a five star chef." Snape bragged shamelessly. "It is required as part of a potions mastery to attend a premiere Muggle university for culinary arts, and I graduated top of my class from Le Cordon Bleu in the heart of Paris."

Harry very much wanted to call bullshit on that claim, but Snape continued on his rant before he could.

"As a matter of fact, Molly had begun a potions apprenticeship herself, but dropped out to have William if I'm not mistaken."

Mrs. Weasley confirms this claim with a nod.

"That is true, but I have spent the last twenty three years cooking three square meals a day for my brood, and I would argue that experience through application trumps education alone."

"What? Do you think I've allowed my own skills to stagnate in the decade and a half since I attained my masters? I cook three squares a day for myself, without exception, and I strive for quality."

Sirius chose that moment to chime in.

"It sounds to me like we need to settle this dispute the good old-fashioned way." His godfather said. "It's time for a COOKOFF!"

Sirius, the younger Weasleys all descended into uproarious cheers and words of encouragement. Even Harry fell into the festivities and tried to egg the two cooks on.

"Now now, there's no need for that. Severus has already declined the invitation we can wait for..."

Molly Weasley broke out of her deflection at the sight of Professor Snape rolling up up his sleeves and marching towards the stove.

"Oooooh." Went the peanut gallery as Mrs. Weasley repeated her earlier look of offended whiplash.

Seeing as it was morning, both the potions master and Weasley matriarch tore into the supply of eggs with a ravenous fervor. Mrs Weasley seemed to be going for omelets, replete with chives, bell peppers, cilantro and cheese that she chopped with charmed knives while manually beating the eggs with a whisk. Harry couldn't tell what Snape was doing but it involved a strainer, a boiling pot of water and a bowl of apple cider vinegar mixed with ale.

Fred and George excused themselves to go get a camera just as the two competitors started on their side dishes. As soon as they were out of sight Harry pulled Sirius aside.

"How in the hell did you find Snape into this so easily?" Harry whispered into his godfather's ear.

"You spend seven years sharing a quarter of your classes with a man and you learn the right way to press his buttons."

"Teach me."

"What happened to burying the hatchet?"

"To hell with the hatchet, I want to fuck with Snape at school."

"That's my boy!"

While they conspired in the corner the two cooks continued in their competition.

Mrs. Weasley went with the classics; bacon and sausage patties. The smell of frying eggs and pork filled the room as the smoke and steam wafted from the stovetop to the kitchen table where Ron was already setting the table. Professor Snape went with skillet-fried steak and sliced pears, which he cooked in a separate pot on a low heat, dashing flour, confectionery sugar and crushed cloves, stirring and crushing it until it became a pudding.

With their meals finished both Mrs Weasley and professor Snape served up a plate for everyone, with Snape adding a few last-minute touches, namely freshly ground pepper, some chives of his own and a spoonful of the vinegar/ale mixture he'd cooled the eggs in.

There was no denying it. Snape's food definitely _looked_ better, with the perfectly oval poached eggs perched atop medium rare steak and sweet pear and clove pudding on the side. What Mrs Weasley's meal lacked in beauty it more than made up for with its massive proportions. The difference in their cooking abilities was clear. Molly Weasley cooked for pure caloric impact; Severus Snape cooked like an artist, with extra focus on health and flavor. One type of food was best eaten like a pig, horking it down; the other, slowly and with proper table manners.

Each person at the table, along with the spots for three missing people, had two breakfast plates set on them.

Harry wanted to dig right into the potion master's masterpiece, but felt uncomfortable trying the man's food first. This was mostly due to their mutual dislike of each other and partly because of Harry's fondness for Mrs. Weasley. Sirius had no such qualm and split his egg with a fork, lathering his steak in the liquid yolks.

"Boys! Nymphadora! Breakfast is ready!" Mrs. Weasley called out through the kitchen door.

"It's Excalibur." Harry corrected without thinking.

"What's Excalibur deary?" Mrs. Weasley asked him.

"Her new name. She likes it." Harry explained. "I coined it. I'm sure she'll legally change it at the first opportunity.

Snape made a face like he wanted to challenge that statement, but seemed to think better of it. He probably decided it was best to maintain the tentative peace they'd just created.

Fred and George arrived long before Tonks, but there was a decidedly awkward, no, nervous pep to their step. They paused at the kitchen doorway, glancing at each other and everyone in the room.

"So um, we are about to ask you all an odd question." Fred preemptively warned them.

"And while it's going to sound bizarre, like a joke coming from us, we need you to know that we're serious." Continued George.

"Deadly serious."

"So if you could answer with complete seriously..."

"Just get out with it you dolts!" Snape erupted at them exactly two second before Harry was planning too.

The twins shared one last glance, cleared their throats and with perfectly serious expressions asked their question.

"Have any of you been making deals with the devil?

Dead silence meet their question.

"What?"

"Huh?"

"Come again?"

And so went the line of questions.

"You know, the devil." Explained Fred.

"Lucifer." Clarified George.

"The morning star." Fred further elaborated.

"Prince of darkness." George spelled out.

"Lord of the flies." Added Fred

"Oh no, that's Beelzabub you're thinking of, completely different entity." Corrected George

"Stop!" Sirius ordered, interrupted their tirade. " No, there has not been any communing with demons under this roof. If there was, I would know."

Well that just raised all kinds of questions for Harry. First, demons are real? Second, Sirius can detect if one has been contacted in his home? That wasn't even considering the possibility of Satan in particular being an active threat to humanity.

"Because he's here here." Fred told them.

Who's here, dears? Molly asked, as if she hadn't quite understood the perfectly clear statement.

Fred and George shared one last concerned glance before turning back to their mother and answering in unison.

"The devil."

They all stared at the twins with blank expressions for a few moments. Then, as if it was choreographed, they all stood up from their chairs in perfect unison, marched through the kitchen door, down the entrance way and filed into the living room and display room on either side of the front door.

They all pressed themselves against the grimy windows, trying to squint through the muck and see if they did indeed have a supernatural visitor.

Standing on the sidewalk across the street was... Well it looked an aweful lot like the devil. He had a few more horns than Harry expected from the fallen archangel, which added to his intimidation factor. Even from this distance Harry could see the black-clad figure had unnatural red and yellow eyes, as if displaying the lake of fire itself.

Harry had seen some terrifying things in his days, and this guy certainly ranked. But he was doing something that put him a notch even above witnessing Voldemort rise out of a cauldron in that graveyard.

He was staring directly at Number 12 Grimmauld place, as if the fidelius charm wasn't even there.

* * *

**Notes**:

I myself am not a five star chef, nor have I gone to culinary school. But I'm sure my description of the cook off is proof enough that I can cook just fine.

And it took four whole chapters, but our second title character has finally made his debut. Darth Maul is in the house!

**Reviews:**

**Guest wrote:**

When does this take place in the star wars story? If I'm reading thus right harry is in book 3 or 4 so I k ow about how old he is but as of the droid and mandalorians... pre naboo crisis?

**Response:**

I explained this in chapter one just below the title.

This story takes place a few weeks prior to the beginning of **Order of the Phoenix** and in the comic book** Son of Dathomir** in chapter 3. Which you can read for free online.

**doctor of supreme awesomeness**** Wrote**:

Awesome!

**Response:**

Well if a man with a doctorate in supreme awesomeness says a thing is awesome, I'm inclined to believe him. Thank you good sir, I always enjoy feedback from experts.

**Qorianth Grindelwald**** Wrote**:

Question! Why is everyone making so many potions? I love the story, but that confused me. If everywhere is covered in cauldrons where could you treat people. and how can you treat people if they don't know where you are?

**Response:**

They weren't brewing the potions for use at Grimmauld place. They were brewing them to transport them to places where they can be used.

Also, any relation to Albus' would-be homosexual life partner?


	5. Chapter 5: Such Strange Magics

**Chapter 5:**

**Such Strange Magics**

* * *

Darth Maul stood on the the sidewalk gazing towards the unnatural phenomina across the derelect and dessicated street. If only the savage, undeveloped creatures of this world had the ingenuity to invent and utilize duracreet and durasteel their city might not be such a flaming wreckage, and their sky might not be filled with the aerosolized chemicals of every manufactured construction material, product or corpse.

But that didn't matter right now. What mattered to the cyborg was the overwhelming typhoon of distortion and disorientation made manifest between those two houses across from him.

Since his arrival on this strange world he had tried and tried to reach out to the force. Each attempt had met with failure. Failure was a deeply loathed and avoided stranger to the greatest warrior Dathomir had ever produced, but he'd finally become acquainted with her these last couple days.

He could still feel the force within himself, so whatever hyperspace anomoly had sent his ship and the meteoric battle station to this backwater planet hadn't cut him off from it. Thank Mother Talzin small miracles! But all the same, he couldn't tap into the well of power around him to try and determine if the separatist and republic ships, and more importantly their Sith and Jedi occupants, had been transported here as well.

He would have to find other means to determine if the other force-users were present in this small world, just as soon as he figured out what this strange... anti-force he felt was coming from.

Imagine his surprise when, while patiently meditating to pass the time while the droids finished their repairs, he sensed an unnatural facsimile to the force just outside of his ship. It was brief, but felt like a twisted, infectious mirror image of what a fellow force user would feel like.

Everything about it was wrong.

Whereas the force was all-encompassing, boisterous and freely giving in what could almost be called a loving embrace, this anti-force felt small, infectious and full of guile. It wasn't dark, even the dark side felt wholly conspicuous, every drop of it's endless abyss screamed "Here I am! Take me!" but this power felt like it wanted to be kept secret, like a hideous thing you would find under a rock, hissing at you and the light you dared to shine on it.

Except such creatures existed in nature, and wer right with the world. This power was not right with the world.

He felt a multitude of waves of this power as his servants chased down it's user. He watched the footage afterwards and was left with even more questions, questions that left his search for General Grievous, Count Dooku and whoever else may habe survived the cataclysm for later.

He'd persued the holes in reality that he could still feel even a day after that peculiar sorcerer had cast his bizarre spells, and the trail lead him here. In front of this maelstrom of such strange magics.

He still couldn't read the letterings on the sides of the buildings, so he lit up his comm.

"Kast." He called calmly over the airwaves

"What!" Came the whaspy response.

He'd let it slide for now. Recovering from third degree, full-body burns without bacta made a certain level of impertinence permittable.

"How far along is the ship's AI in deciphering the language of this world?"

"Oh it finished in seconds. Turns out the most common language here is, er, common." Saxon's voice explained over the pained hiss of their female companion.

Maul assumed he misheard his commander.

"I'm sorry, did you say they speak common?"

"Yessir."

"And their written word?"

"Also common. Just a different alphabet to represent letters and numbers."

That was good news, if somewhat concerning. For an unknown world to speak common as the primary language, that could only mean they'd had some kind of contact with the rest of the galaxy at large. Or perhaps had been conquered or infiltrated by common-speaking persons.

That could have something to do with why he didn't feel the force anymore. Maybe some force user had drained this world? It was a frightening thought to contemplate a Darth Nihilus immitator, but perhaps it was best not to jump to such a dangerous conclusion until he'd gathered some more evidence.

"Send me the translation."

And he did. The hologram on his arm now displayed two different alphabets for common; every symbol from the one he knew placed beside those of those unfamiliar to him After several minutes of glancing back and forth from the hologram to the buildings opposite him he was able to decipher what they said.

"Eleven and thirteen Grimmauld Place. Hmmm."

He glanced behind himself to count the numbers on the other buildings of the street, or at least what remained of them. There were numbers one through eleven and thirteen through twenty, save for the rubble where numbers four, five and sixteen used to be.

"Then where is number twel- AAAAAARGH!"

Before he could name the missing place he felt it again. That twisted imitation of the force, only this time he felt it IN HIS HEAD! He knew what it was doing there; it was scrubbing his knowledge of the number twelve out of his mind. Putting up a berrier between the cognitive pathways that would connect the words "Number Twelve" and "Grimmauld Place" in his was advanced, but familiar, mind-manipulation his master used on people who were at risk of recognizing the connection between Senator Palpatine and Darth Sidious. It was easier, and gentler, to create such mental barriers in place of removing memories whole cloth... or simply killing anyone too smart for their own good.

But this mind magic, this anti-force baring down on his mind was anything BUT gentle. It felt like someone had taken a metal brush meant for cleaning the residue out of blaster chambers and used it to perform brain surgery on him. Very precise brain surgery. Needless to say, It was a hideous sensation, but it explained what he was feeling.

There was a home, a building here, that he could not see or even contemplate due to some sorcery trying to hide it from existence and from the minds of all people capable of imagining it. It was magic more powerful than any the force could do, if only powerful in a very specific way.

And it had just attacked him.

He let the rage fester. His hatred at the boy he had seen on the playback after their chase. The little human that had nearly killed one of his best soldiers, and one of only two he was in contact with. The anger at their lack of bacta. The confusion at his inability to sense the force. Most of all, he let his lust for retaliation at this mental assault fester along with the rest of these beautiful things.

He let it metastasize. He let it build up within him, and with it came power. The force within him sang with the fuel he fed it, a song that turned sorrowful when no force from outside of his body sang back to it.

And it was then he did something he'd seldom done in the past. He used a power he neglected to develop due to his own philosophy of combat. Due to his own desire to focus on martial prowess and his need to conquer foes by pure combative skill and might.

He flung his hands forward and from each fingertip came bolts of hyperspace -lue lightning. It scorched his fingertips, charring his nails as a testament to his wrath A wrath he unleashed at the hidden place between numbers eleven and thirteen Grimmauld Place where it too vanished.

It was as if his force lightning was being sucked into a spacial anomoly of some kind, which he reasoned is exactly what was happening, only he couldn't see said spacial anomoly. It mattered little, he leaned into the the pool of darkside energy within his very bones and pressed on. The burning of his fingertips serving as a minor pain to add more fuel to his passions.

He carried on for eighteen whole seconds, a monumental feat for one so untrained with the skill as him, before releasing his grip on the feral energies that would love nothing more than to turn back on his person.

He took a deep, steadying breath and allowed the typhoon of emotions within him to calm down. There would be time to let loose later, but the situation still called for calmness. He doubted his display had killed anybody, let alone destroyed whatever was behind this altered space in front of him. But that hadn't been his goal.

He'd given his warning. His shot across the bow, as it were. If the young sorcerer who had humiliated his warriors failed to receive it, well, then Darth Maul would be able to sate his desire for martial conquest soon enough.

He mounted his speeder and kicked off the ground. It's systems roared to life and he fled from the scene of his attack. He had reconnaissance to do, supplies to steal, several thousand missing soldiers in need of rallying and a whole lot of people in need of killing.

If only there were more hours in a day.

* * *

Harry and his entourage slowly picked their sorry arses off the ground with no small amount of groaning, not to mention a few hisses of pain from those who sliced themselves open on all of the scorched, shattered glass now littering the floor.

That lightning, that power that set every instinct in his body on edge like nails on a chalkboard before he'd even felt it's kiss, had been the closest thing he'd ever felt to the cruciatus curse. Save for the cruciatus curse itself, obviously. But that particular unforgivable didn't shatter windows, set furniture on fire, or melt flesh.

"Owowowow." Ginny moaned as she tentatively touched some of the blackened skin on her bare arms, shoulders, legs and thighs.

It only now registered to Harry how short of a cut that summer dress had. But he was in too much pain himself to get worked up over the flash of black lace he spotted beneath said skirt.

"What in the bloody hell was that!?" Ron voiced the question on all of their minds.

"An alien, I would wager." Snape sniped unhelpfully.

"An alien wizard, perha-owowow!" Harry tried to joke before succumbed to another spasm coursing through his new scars.

Fortunately misses Weasley had sense to know exactly what would cure them all though.

"Let's all head back to breakfast, away from the windows, while I have Kreacher fetch us some burn salve, hm?"

The words "and wait for Dumbledore" were left unsaid.

The group of five redheads and three brunettes shuffled like injured zombies back to the kitchen/dining room where the fruits of the cooking competition sat on all of their plates. Well, all of their plates except for Harry's. His plate was empty, likely due to the shapely shapeshifter sitting in his chair chewing on the last remnants of medium-rare steak.

"Morning folks." Excaliber greeted between chews. "The hell appended to all of yous? You look like you was all left in the oven too long."

It was such an appropriate description of their appearance that not even Snape could come up with a retort, settlinf for, instead, shrugging and taking his seat to enjoy his meal. Harry and the others soon followed.

It was, all of it, absolutely delicious. Having Tonks apply burn salve to his wounds made it all the more relaxing. At leas, it was better than having Kreacher do it, but it would have been better if she'd done it for him exclusively; watching her do the same for Snape, Ron and Hermione took away from the intimacy of the gesture.

That Fletcher fellow had swang back around to pickup more supplies for selling before Excaliber was finished, and helped apply the sweet-smelling cream to the others as well.

It was all almost enough to take Harry's mind off of that lightning caster. Almost.

What kind of training, what kind of study was required to cast such dark and powerful magic without a wand? Magic fueld by hate and rage so pure that Harry had felt it buildup within the demonic figure before he'd even cast the spell. How does one learn to use those emotions, emotions he was all too familiar with, to fuel such strange magics?

Harry was curious. Harry was very, _very_ curious.

* * *

**Somewhere off the coast of England:**

Albus Dumbledore and Alastor Moody stepped off of the helicopter and onto the American aircraft carrier. The former had to duck beneath the doorway and hold his bowler hat in place to prevent the wind from stealing it away

Alastor tried to tell him something over the whooping sound of the spinning blades, but Albus' hearing wasn't quite what it used to be. No doubt the cyclops was complaining about the Muggle penguin suits they had to wear in order to blend in. That or the eye patch.

A contingent of soldiers waited on them near the portal leading down into the depths of this steel monster of a ship. Introductions were superfluous, as these men were fully trained in dealing with wizarding guests.

"We fished them out of the water not twenty minutes ago. They didn't resist." The man informed them.

"Have they said anything of note?" Albus asked as they made their way towards the brig.

"We haven't even attempted to interrogate them. Procedure dictated hazmat suits and containment in case of alien pathogens. Can't risk an unknown plague."

Seemed reasonable

"They're both holed up in biological containment tents in the brig. Just through here." The officer informed them as they passed through another portal.

The quarantined brig looked like something out of those old timey science fiction horror flicks he and Aberforth used to go see decades earlier. Back when they had good story telling but horrible visuals. Thick, clear plastic tubes large enough for an elephant to walk through had been cut up and taped together to form a pair of hermetically sealed rooms.

Within each sat a man. The older one was negroid and appeared to be in his fortys or fiftys. The younger was caucasoid with a short, well-maintained beard. Both appeared perfectly human and both wore robes over clothes that wouldn't look out of place in a monestary for warrior monks.

"Are you quite sure they are not of this world?" Albus asked, allowing his skepticism to drip into his voice.

"Positive. They emerged from a space-worthy capsule similar to those we design for Earth re-entry. Likely an escape pod." The officer in charge informed him. "Also, we confiscated a pair of hones-to-God laser swords off of them. They're pretty amazing."

Decades of working in an institution teaching dangerous magic to children and teenagers came rushing back to Albus like a freight train. A freight train insisting his inform the grown man that playing with Lazer swords could be detrimental to the health and safety of himself and those around him.

"So which would you like to interrogate first? The blonde Sean Connery or the Samual Jackson look-a-like?" One of the other officers offered.

Albus recognized the former reference, but not the latter. Perhaps a relative of that pop singer Filius adored?

One of the other officers leaned into the one who had just spoken and whispered just loud enough for Albus to hear.

"I will give you all of my earthly posessions if you can teach him to say motherfucker to greet people instead of hello."

Albus outright flinched at the vulgarity, but was prevented from reprimanding the young man for his speach by the sound of tapping on plastic

"Excuse me." The blonde Sean Connery looking alien spoke in perfect English."I realize I'm not in an advantageous negotiating position here, but could I convince you to lend us some spare sets of clothes? Or perhaps a towel? We are both rather damp."

Albus examined the two and, indeed, their robes were still soaking wet. Had they not been given any accomodations in the twenty minutes since these soldiers "fished" them out of the sea?

"I think I would like to speak with the young, well-spoken man first." The Supreme Mugwump informed the soldiers. "Alastor, if you wouldn't mind interrogating his dark-skinned friend."

* * *

**Notes:**

No responses to reviews this time. What few needed responding to were questions I answered in this chapter.


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